


black triangle, red circle

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Butch/Femme, Dream Bubbles, F/F, POV Roxy Lalonde, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16205045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: In dream bubbles, everything is fine."When I say feminine...  immediately the perception is that it must be soft and lovely, but I mean feminine in the violent sense. Desiring, but not being able to define your desire, wanting power but being powerless and blaming it on yourself, or just hurting yourself as a way to let out the aggression in you. It’s a lot of pent-up anger or desire without a socially acceptable outlet."My first piece for theRoxy Lalonde fanzine!





	black triangle, red circle

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by the butch-femme symbol proposed by Rhon Drinkwater that was referenced in the book _Trans People in Love._ The chapter “To Fight, Live, and Love at the Gender Border” by Isaac Lindstrom starts with a poem that goes, “It was me / It was you / I am your black triangle / You are my red circle / I have sharp edges / You are round and soft / I am stone / You are the sun / I penetrated you / You embraced me / I was dark / You gave me some light / I was in heaven / You let me be there / You and me were no longer two separate signs but one single symbol of love.”

This is what death is like for these girls: her dreams become part of an old god’s motionless body and both hiccup into existence in dark rivers outside of time. She laughs because there are no more games to win, no more futures to fight for. There is a great emptiness inside her filled by her other self’s memories - other girls, outer gods. 

Here is the primordial void, embryonic with single-celled organisms soaking in their warm absinthe ponds. Here is the eldritch pantheon, clicking their many tongues and thrashing their blue-shadowed limbs in the noble circle. Here are the dead girls, emergent as light-footed sleepwalkers. All the same and yet nothing alike.

Her name is Roxy Lalonde, and her best friend is dead. So is she. She is climbing the last pyramid and trying to forget what went wrong. Below her, the mistakes reverberate like distant thunder. Little girls, dripping from the rainbow oil spill of paradox space, ascend with the thick stench of sulphur and burnt hair. They float past her into the iridescent pyre above, where the helium blimps have caught fire. Their girl-shaped shadows choke her and their pyramids never end. Even though they’re just reflections of all her possible choices, she still feels a pang of maternal regret.

She climbs, and climbs, and climbs - she will save everyone and be perfectly untouched. Her mascara will never smudge, her skin will never blemish, and her stockings will never tear.

“Slow down, buster,” Jane says from somewhere in the abyss. “You don’t have to climb anymore. You can come down now. I'm here to catch you when you fall.”

“When?” Roxy finds herself replying to the disembodied voice of her dead best friend. “When, not if?”

Her hand reaches for the next ledge and misses. She moves backward, slowly, and drifts into nothingness. While she’s here, she makes herself presentable. She can wear lipstick again, and she gets her hair done. The curls against her cheek hang low like olives on a heavy branch, and she wears an elegant velvet dress with a slit up the side and mink fur around her shoulders - the vision of a classic Hollywood star, from an era long before she lived and died. It's already covered in cat hair.

A light breeze, as if from another girl’s memories, comes from nowhere to gently carry her. The room forms out of prismatic light as she waltzes through the atoms. Now she can see Jane, and Roxy twirls into her arms. She has a feeling it’s going to be a long night, and she couldn’t have anyone better to spend it with.

Jane’s hair is combed and parted down the middle precisely, and she takes slow drags from a cigar, smoke curling above her visible peach fuzz mustache and into the air. The white button-up under her navy blazer is crisply tailored, and her black Oxford shoes are polished to a shine.

Chairs appear, and so does a stone fireplace. Brocade curtains come into existence before the windows do. Roxy bats her lashes, and the light dims until only the fireplace casts two dancing shadows over the wooden floors. They sway together to the staccato pulse of horrorterror blood-pushers. The old gods, swollen with childhood hopes and fantasies, undulate outside the limits of the room.

She can smell Jane’s cologne and, when she rests her head against Jane’s shoulder, her hair pomade. Jane puts her arm around Roxy’s waist and both sigh in contentment.

“Can it be like this forever?”

“My dear,” Jane says, eyes filled with white eternity, “I believe it will be.”


End file.
